Thousands
of rose petals? Scraps of red parchment? Poppy blossoms? Whatever they are,
they are sacked in huge canvas bags, lumpen in a collective heaviness that only
stirs to life whenever slaves darts by—and they do so frequently here in the
staging area of the triumph, even as they create a generous berth around the
Emperor and his mistress.

Together,
Xena and Caesar circle a motionless gilded chariot, and Caesar is as excited
as a boy. "I forgot to mention this." He's behind her, his hand resting
proprietarily upon her hip, his chin upon her shoulder. She's aroused, nervous,
irritated. "While you're riding, old Lycurgus will be with you—"

"Who?"

"One
of my slaves, Xena. The one you threatened to kick."

"That
could be any number of them, actually."

He laughs,
and she loves the rich, indulgent tone of it. "Listen to me, you beautiful
brute." He nips at her ear. "This is important. He will be behind
you in the chariot, holding the laurel above head. And then he's going to say
something to you that may sound strange, but—"

"I
knew it—he does have a drinking problem, doesn't he?"

"No,
my dear. It's an incantation. Part of the ceremony."

"You
are going to kill me with all your ridiculous Roman ceremonies."

His
breath and his kiss are warm and ticklish against her neck, his embrace tight
but not suffocating. It was good, they were good together, but sometimes in
nights too thick under the spell of silence and darkness—the strongest breeder
of doubts—she wondered if it was all good enough. "No, Xena, listen.
He's going to say to you: 'Remember, you are mortal. You are only a woman.'"

This
bothers Xena considerably less than practicalities of the ceremony; already
she is dully, oppressively aware that she is only mortal, only a woman, and
to be constantly reminded of it seems an annoyance significantly less than the
hindrance of speaking Latin. She squints skeptically at the chariot, and remembers
dismally how Lycurgus always reeks of cheap wine. "How is he supposed to
fit in this damn thing with me?"

"I
trust that with your excellent reflexes—" Caesar spins her around and pulls
her toward him. He admires the perfect pirouette as she resists falling into
his arms; her hand splays—an elegant spider—across his cuirass in an effort
to maintain her unshakable poise. With only this motion his confidence surged
quietly; this was an affirmation that, despite the impulse of it all, he had
made the right decision to choose her. "—it will not be a problem."
He would always throw her off balance, and she would always land with impeccable
grace.

The woman who will be

The
grain of the kitchen table seems finer than the ridges on her hands. Today the
ridges are heightened into vermillion relief by thin lines of dried blood—cusps
around her fingernails, inlets along her knuckles. She makes study of the lines,
reading them slowly, carefully; her hands are a primer on death. Today's object
lesson is what to do when a fellow student tries to take the one thing you've
decided will never be taken from you again, even if it is also the one thing
you cannot imagine anyone wanting from you ever again. So you beat him to death
with a rock and your bare hands. You breathe fear into every living creature
within your reach and awe into the man who owns you. The lessons limn over one
another with each passing day. Why wash your hands?

And
then Cato's youngest daughter, Adriana, skips into the kitchen and places Gabrielle's
wrist in the gentlest manacle ever—her own soft, young hand—and tugs with insistent
playfulness.

Gabrielle
looks up from the lesson. Keeping her in his home with his family is a perfectly
calculated risk on Cato's part: A house of women soothes the savage in all
of us, he had said. Blessed as he is, and with a daub of merciful luck,
Cato is correct. For in Adriana she sees much of her own sister, Lila—so much
that she believes she must be remembering Lila's qualities incorrectly, or somehow
imposing them wrongly upon this sweetly bullying, spoiled girl, or just indulging
in the kind of wishful thinking that blindly, happily intrudes upon the relentlessness
of not only other memories, but her own reality.

Or maybe
all of it.

"Come,"
the girl says. "Don't you want to see the woman who will be the Empress?"

Gabrielle
smiles briefly, shakes her head shyly.

"Don't
be silly!" Adriana pulls harder, and is not above contorting herself comically
to amuse the slave, twisting like a skein of silk caught in a fierce wind, until
Gabrielle relents and rises.

Yes,
she is a pet—the beast adored, an Amazon gladiator-in-training, a tax break
thanks to a new law passed by Caesar, better protection than a dog. She trains
every day, sleeps on a pallet in the kitchen, is constantly plied with food
by Cato's daughters. This morning the girls had employed her in a taste test
of dates from different sellers in the city. The ones from Lydia are better,
aren't they, Gabrielle?

She
had agreed.

Cato
and his wife, Adriana Major, are already on the balcony, waiting for a glimpse
of Caesar's Greek lover. Scant days ago his triumph entered the city and this
exotic woman, who rode as proudly as he did, was at his side, bedecked in armor,
weapons, and colorful clothes. Since then the news reader in the Forum reported
that her Latin was acceptable, her teeth in remarkably good condition, and that
Caesar had spoken before the Senate on how she was an "important new ally
to Rome." Rumors had it that he had already undertaken the delicate operation
of divorcing his wife, Calpurnia, who was from a respected, well-connected family.

Public
opinion, of course, was divided among the loyalists and those who favored an
alliance with the Greeks that a marriage with Xena would bring. Regardless,
all were curious to witness Xena walk, presumably unafraid. among the people.
Apparently it had been her idea to conduct a walking tour of the city, bit by
bit, to familiarize herself with the streets and the people, for the plebes
to see that she is no monstrous barbarian.

Noise
from the crowd swirls through the air. Cato stretches his stubby neck. First,
a small brace of soldiers push into the intersection. Then: "That's her."
A throb of excitement ripples his voice.

She
stands apart from everyone, even the soldiers, and quietly surveys the streets.
She is tall, wears black and gold armor and a cape, and a sword hangs at her
side. Her black hair mimics the subtle fluttering of her cape. Despite her imperious
bearing, she smiles easily. She recognizes someone in the crowd and walks over
to Gurges the merchant, who is there with his young son. After a brief exchange
with the merchant she kneels and speaks with the boy.

"Working
the crowd, very good," Cato murmurs.

Adriana
Major concedes, "She is very attractive,"

Cato
sighs in rapturous agreement, which only makes his patient wife raise an amused
eyebrow. "What? I was only thinking of poor Calpurnia! You know she won't
marry again."

"Poor
Calpurnia, my foot," scoffs Cato's wife. "She'll be fine. She has
more money than the Senate combined."

"True
enough." Cato falls silent for a while, until continuing with a sudden
master plan: "Our soon-to-be Empress is a fighter, they say. She may need
some bodies to practice with bodies I can provide." As if sensing that
Gabrielle is standing behind him and flexing a hand that feels achingly empty
without a weapon in it—as indeed she is—he turns abruptly to address her: "But
not you. I haven't gotten my money out of you yet, girl."

Adriana
Major, who has clearly reached that stage in marriage where the moral shortcomings
of one's spouse are more amusement at best and irritant at worse and not a vast
failure of character, chuckles. "You never stop, do you?"

And
he, by turns equally affectionate and oblivious, can only reply: "Never,
love."

Gabrielle
watches the woman who will be the Empress move along down the street and out
of sight. If she had been an innkeeper's daughter in Amphipolis—as they claim
of this Xena—would she now be poised to rule the world? Were she and Xena different
sides of the same coin? Why even contemplate it? Mere foolishness to think such
a thing, to envision her image smelt upon brass. Then she wonders if Xena is
truly fond of the man she is rumored to marry, as fond of him as Cato is of
his wife. Never, love. Never love.

The woman in the distance recedes
from view. And Adriana, who possesses a bright future as a merchant's wife,
is all business as she once again tugs at Gabrielle's arm: "Servia and
I have some pomegranates for you to try now."